Monday Evening/Tuesday Morning

I know our music, this soundless gravity, our piccolos and violins—that inner film, our mental cinemas, our waving odors; as coming to justice, where hearts are static, such pressure by tongue-abuse. I know our fire, as thumping as thunder, or seated a fathom our souls; that chiseled residence, as acacia swans, or oaken sap—that music, seeping into exospheres, returning this vehicle of brains; to know art, this piano by psalms, concerned with visitation: that deep misprint; that small mandala; our aches to bones as flaming furiously. I know our arcs, such torn conviction, to have by heights such meditation: where music is home-plate, our bases loaded, our essence striking a homerun; as trekking forever, our journey discolored, our tap-water acidic. I’ve called to winds, as calling to persons, as distinguishing divinity; if but our minds, permeated by our souls, while seated that throne of hearts—to sail by graces, alive our addictions, suited for this voyage; at bears for courage, or deers for innocence, alike to something monstrous: that keen leviathan, sorting through gothic chimes, at tears to ingest a series of crimes: our cryptic silence, as joined to cosmos, while pillaging through ancient tombs: that thought he had, as stumbling upon divinity, where harvest became this flaming inventor. I know our skies, tripping for rising through symbols, at terrors to conduct a symphony: that need for magic, as becoming too familiar, at horrors to lose faith; or more this legacy, as pointing towards mirrors, at silence to convey that subtle element. I’ll sing our song, lonely but crowded, this way of life, emphatic; as driven a soul, this heavy witness, while designed for this voyage: suspending wits; feeling pure affections; such by blankness to utter flame; that channel churning, our lamps by rain, our fountains as waterfalls to heaven—by steep cascades, our inner armor, our trucks as mental squirrels—to see infinity, abusing our wits, fraught by intelligence: our reckless woes; as controlled rebels; to mercy our lights seeking our cause. I know our music—that gourmet fire, grounded in something mysterious: such simulations; as neuro-hearts; or more biochemical intentions—to flicker forever, as so much to live for, inflated by this incessant dying: those towers of darkness; those dichotomous powers; our fallacies as much to die for: if but to expand, our wings as esoteric, our midnights as Sunday Stars.